2 Hearts, 2 Minds, 1 Team, Brothers
by Katelyn Isilhin
Summary: A collection of Sherlock drabbles. You can expect angst, h/c, fluff, crack, gen, whatever comes to mind. T for anything I might do, ratings will be at the beginning of each chapter. The title is the best acronym I could come up with for 221B, it's lame and reminiscent of preteens, I know. Please R&R! No slash, profanity, sex, or gore. Art by reapersun.
1. Sometimes You Just Need a Hug

_**A/N:** Hello all! I started this before I watched Sign of Three, and finished it the day after. I hope the tone stays the same. Somebody PM me and we can cry about it together. Just a couple more days of being off-hiatus. I don't what I'll do. For anyone who saw my Lost in Paradise thing, I'm sorry. I took it down. That was so bad. It was past midnight and I was crying, okay?!_

_Anyway. I wanted a fic where Sherlock learned hugs were good. It ended up being a bit more than that, I think. I like it. I might fix it up a bit later. Darkest thing I've ever wrote (LIP aside), rather liked it actually... :)_

_And this is the first entry in my series of Sherlock drabbles! I've been talking about starting one of these for a while, and I finally did it. Stay tuned, I've got tons of ficlet prompts I want to try._

_**WARNING: This story has a lot of blood and some slightly graphic descriptions. **_

_Enjoy, and don't forget to leave me a review and tell me what you think!_

* * *

After a lifetime of being told he was 'different', in varying degrees of affection or hatred, Sherlock didn't assume he needed the things all the 'normal' people did. But once again, John Hamish Watson changed everything, corrupting all of Sherlock's data, forcing him to reach new conclusions. It was inconvenient to be proved wrong, but for some reason Sherlock relished it, in those cases. Very, very few people had ever proved him wrong in his life, and the small army doctor kept on surprising him, his unexplored depths beckoning to Sherlock's curious nature.

Sherlock rose coughing and gasping from the kitchen table where he had been pinned, blood covering his hands. The door burst open with a metallic screech, admitting a stream of Scotland Yard's finest, guns extended. But the weapons were soon lowered, upon seeing there was no need. On the floor at Sherlock's feet was a man, his eyes glazed over in death, his hands clutched around a knife that was embedded in his jugular vein.

"Sherlock! You okay?" exclaimed John, running to the consulting detective's aid. The taller man waved him away, trying not to place his bloodied fingers on anything, thus spreading the thick liquid. He eventually got his breath back, and by then the paramedics arrived, who were also unneeded. Sherlock was uninjured, and the criminal and his latest victim were beyond help or harm. The poor woman lay not very far away, her throat cut and face contorted in terror. They had been too late.

"You killed them?" asked a wide-eyed Sergeant Donovan, looking between Sherlock's stained hands and the pair of people lying in a dark pool.

"The serial killer, in self-defense," retorted Sherlock.

_His mind made him relive the moment, when his vision was going fuzzy, the malicious face above him, and thumbs pressing his trachea shut. He had blindly reached for a weapon on the counter next to him, and his fingers found the butcher's blade. The door was trembling under assault from the detectives on the other side, but Sherlock had no clue if they would get there in time. In a kill-or-be-killed moment, he plunged the knife into his assailant's neck, his expression fierce and dark. The man had begun making the most awful, haunting choking sounds, his blood spurting out of the entry point and covering Sherlock's hand and dripped onto his clothes. Before he could be contaminated further, Sherlock shoved him off, leaving his opponent to convulse horrifically on the floor before going still forever._

Donovan's eyes narrowed. "Sure. And you couldn't wait five more seconds for us? Instead you had to go and murder him, you psychopath!" she spat acerbically.

"He was strangling me! And I prefer 'sociopath!'" growled Sherlock, ignoring John's warning look.

"No wonder. We all want to," she said scathingly before turning and doing whatever pointless stupid things someone on her level of idiocy did.

"What happened?" asked Lestrade, walking over with a not-amused look, brushing past Donovan.

"I could ask the same thing of you, Lestrade," Sherlock said sharply. "What took so long?"

Lestrade scowled. "Don't give me any of that, Sherlock. I can arrest you if I so pleased." Sherlock gave the inspector a ferocious glare, which was ignored. "If you hadn't run off without telling any of us where you were going, this wouldn't have happened."

"I was trying to save her!" he said loudly, throwing an arm toward the pale corpse across the room.

"Yeah, you see how that turned out," replied Lestrade, who clearly didn't have any patience to spare at the moment, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock went silent, dangerously so.

"Tell me. What happened." Lestrade said after a pause, crossing his arms.

"It was him or me. I chose me." Sherlock snapped, and began to make a beeline for the door, shoving aside anyone in his way. It seemed like everyone in the room was yelling at him, to stay or to go, to speak or be silent. Sherlock needed silence. He didn't miss the way everyone looked at him, with the incriminating red sheen on his hands and clothes. The strange psychopath had been found in a room with two bodies. No one was going to forget about this any time soon.

"Aren't we going to arrest him?" he heard some woman ask before he slammed the door behind him.

It didn't matter what they thought, they were all idiots.

He eventually made it back to open air. At least, relatively. London never had the cleanest of atmospheres.

Sherlock had no idea where he was going. He wasn't likely to get a cab in this state. 221B didn't sound inviting, aside from the shower. But he needed to get out of these clothes. So, he walked all the way home, and got out his key and opened pushed the door open roughly. Thankfully by that point the blood had dried, so it didn't spread. Mrs. Hudson emerged, and began to give Sherlock a bright greeting before gasping in shock.

"Sherlock! What on earth-"

"Everything's fine." Sherlock ground out before stomping up the stairs, not trusting himself to say anything else.

He went straight to the shower, throwing each article of clothing off with as loud a sound as he could make, leaving it all in a haphazard pile in the hall. Then he scrubbed himself within an inch of his life, making his eyes blur with pain. Dressed in his most skin-friendly clothing, he snatched his violin off the couch and strode to the window, sitting in front of it.

Then started grinding the bow on the strings. Just sawing away like a madman, producing an unholy screech that filled the air, making it electric.

Sherlock was not okay. He was sad, he was angry, he was hurt, he was guilty, he was lonely.

He couldn't escape the truth that the blood of both the man and woman were on his head. He'd been too slow in solving the case, and too eager to take life. Sherlock was accustomed to death - his line of work brought him in close association with it. But he'd never killed someone with his own hands the way he had today. Never physically took someone's life. Though his skin was pink from being vigourously exfoliated, he couldn't seem to wash away the bloodstains. Sherlock was drowning in it, in the burden of responsibility and guilt that he swore he would carry to his last breath.

_Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing._

Not a hero, not a villain, a sad mix of the two, that's what he was. He'd failed before, but the woman's terrified expression was burned into his retinas, probably forever. Right along with the image of Soo Lin Yao, with a bullet through her pretty head. The price of being known to be a genius is when you're wrong.

Failure was so... crushing. Final. Sherlock told everyone he didn't care, didn't care about lives or about people, just puzzles. But he was also a very good liar. Just like how he told everyone he didn't care what anyone thought. To a degree, it was true. He cared a great deal less than most people. It still didn't protect him from the slap in the face he felt every time he was assumed to be a murderer.

Mrs. Hudson burst in, and snatched the violin from his hands with uncharacteristic ferocity.

"Sherlock! People are threatening to call the police!" she scolded harshly.

"Let them." Sherlock retorted sulkily to her retreating back. He wouldn't get his violin back for a week, unless John moved himself to use those disarming eyes on the venerable landlady. But considering the nasty way Sherlock was acting, it was unlikely. John had a strong (and strange) sense of justice.

He remained there, staring moodily out the window, the dark cloud of his thoughts almost visible around him.

After the sun went down, Sherlock heard the door open. He didn't turn around.

"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him, too upset to talk without saying something he'd regret. There were a series of sounds, John putting things down and making tea and making a bunch of unnecessary _noise_.

"Would you _cut that out_?!" Sherlock said sharply. He was grimly fascinated by his own anger.

"What?" John asked, bewildered. Such an idiot, couldn't he see Sherlock was trying to pout? When Sherlock didn't reply, John continued whatever he was doing. There were muted clinks, he was stirring sugar into the tea in the cup. Each high-pitched sound drove Sherlock closer to the edge.

Clink.

Sherlock slapped his hands over his ears.

C-clink.

He ground his teeth, trying to stay sane.

Clink.

Sherlock self-restraint snapped in two.

"_**STOP**_!" he yelled rabidly, gripping his curls and pulling on them hard enough to make tears sting his eyes.

"What is your problem, Sherlock?" snapped an irritated army doctor. Sherlock could feel his bristling temper from across the room.

"Would you stop making so much _noise_! You're driving me _mad_!" The words were spoken with such poison it was withering.

There was a snort, and then it started again. The clink-clink-clink of metal against china. How long did it take to stir in sugar, anyway?!

"**_JOHN_**!" Sherlock yelled, and turned and threw a book at his friend's back.

He was facing the window again when he heard the semi-hollow thud of the book against a ribcage, and then a dull clatter when it fell to the ground. He winced but said nothing, horrified at his own outburst. And yet he was still blazing mad. John's very presence contaminated the air with stupidity, he was like a speedbump to Sherlock's troubled mind, keeping it from thinking the dark thoughts he wanted it to.

He hung his head, ashamed of himself and his childish ways. Now John would be angry with him too, just like everyone else in the whole stupid world. He heard approaching footsteps, and stiffened, ready for a row.

"Go away." Sherlock snapped, dreading what John would have to say to him.

There was no response. Sherlock could almost writhe in suspense, his heart high on adrenaline. He was very afraid. John had a mild disposition, but when he got angry, it was frightening.

Eventually, John sat next to him, and placed a steaming cup of tea in front of Sherlock. The consulting detective started in surprise, looking at his friend. John just looked quietly out the window, sipping his tea. One half of Sherlock's brain rebelled, he didn't need anyone or anything, let alone a cup of tea. The rest of it was jaded and defeated, and in the end he picked up the cup and sipped it slightly. It was the perfect temperature, as always.

He was sure that John would start talking, and drive him up a wall with pointless words - about events, about Sherlock, or trying to get Sherlock to talk. But the flat remained silent. Sherlock drank in the comfortable stillness, John's slightly huddled form next to him bringing him comfort. It was exactly what he needed. How John continued to know what that was, Sherlock didn't know. It was almost supernatural. The quiet companionship continued a while longer before it was broken by Sherlock's low timbre.

"Thank you." His hands shook with sincerity, a unique weakness of his.

"Quite right," John said drily, sipping his tea again.

There was a longer stretch of silence, during which time Sherlock's initial distress melted away at the heat of the affection blazing next to him. The ash blond hair, the wrinkly (reminiscent of a daschund puppy) forehead apparently held unfathomable mysteries beneath it, definitely the greatest puzzle Sherlock had ever encountered in his life. Every time Sherlock was sure he had pushed too far, John came springing back, and burrowed deeper in Sherlock's self-imposed isolation. It was - unprecedented.

"I've killed men," said John quietly. Sherlock blinked in surprise, not at the revelation - John _had_ been a soldier, after all - but at the insight. How had John know what had upset him?

"And I've failed to save people. Good people," John continued, his eyes becoming glassy as he relived the memory. Also not shocking - he was a doctor too, of course he would have lost patients. But it had never occurred to Sherlock before how similar their burden was.

"But you can't hold on to it forever. You have to let it go, and learn from it," John said, making eye contact with Sherlock for the first time in the conversation.

Sherlock swallowed and looked out the window.

"When did I sign up for a therapy session?" he said softly with sarcasm lacing his voice, but there was no bite in it.

"Well after an incident like that, most people would be in shock, so you're doing fine," John replied with that pawky humour of his, and drained the last of his tea.

It was impossible to let go, of course. But he would try. Sherlock told himself it wasn't his fault, he did his best, he had no choice. It was like trying to break out of prison bars with a nail filer. Tiring, discouraging, and pointless.

Suddenly an arm snaked around Sherlock's shoulder, making him jerk in shock for the second time that evening.

"Come here, you great sod," said John affectionately, and pulled Sherlock in for a not-at-all-awkward side hug.

"What - what is this? Why-" Sherlock blurted rapidly, blinking in shock, his body stiff.

"Just go with it," John said firmly, cutting him off. "It's called a hug, genius."

Sherlock didn't need hugs, hugs were for ordinary people who couldn't sort out their problems without some happy hormones to push them along. He was a sociopath. Sociopaths didn't embrace. He said as much out loud.

John let his head fall on Sherlock's shoulder, the tips of the hair on top of his head brushing Sherlock's neck.

Sociopaths certainly didn't 'cuddle.'

But the gesture set off fireworks in Sherlock's head. Affectionate physical contact was so amazing, he had forgotten. He sank into the embrace, comfortable. John gave good hugs. Not those awkward things where you stand wishing they would let go, and all you can think about is how there's hair in your face and one particular set of muscles is burning from holding the same position for long. No, this was different.

Better.

He felt better. Stupid hormones, they were affecting him. But oh, it felt so good, he was starved for it. The body's strange remedies for distress were truly strange. He rested his head on top of John's, feeling the bundle of hair fibres between their skulls rustle with slight movement.

"This is good." Sherlock mumbled, filing it under 'things to be sorted later'.

"You think?" John threw back, and Sherlock could feel him smiling.

"Should I - do anything?" Sherlock asked tentatively, not wanting to mess it up.

"You're doing great." John said encouragingly.

"Am I?" Sherlock asked in a high pitch, taken aback.

"Yep." John answered matter-of-factly.

"I've always been a quick learner," Sherlock threw in proudly.

"Stop talking, you'll ruin it," John said drily, smile gone.

"Okay." Sherlock meekly replied, settling into the comfortable silence.

Part of Sherlock's brain wondered if this was real. It was so incredible. He needed to experiment in this area more, definitely. He could feel affection welling up in his heart, unbidden. It was oh-so-dangerous for him to invest himself. Detrimental to his work. But if this was friendship, he decided he rather liked it.

Perhaps it was worth the risk.


	2. A Femme Fatale

_**A/N:** Okay, so here we have another nice fic. I don't think there's anything I need to warn you about, so dig in!_

* * *

"Hey, Sherlock." John said as his friend walked in the room. It was about noon, and sunlight invaded the flat that had been as dark as the stormy sky for the last few days.

"Mmm?" Sherlock said, still drowsy, as he rubbed his hair with his hand and curled up in his chair. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette.

"I've a bit of a mystery for you, if you want to try and clear it up," replied John hesitantly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows curiously. "I'm not going to look for your keys again, if that's what you were going to ask." he said drily.

"Stuff it. I was wondering if-" John bit off, afraid how this would sound.

"Come then, spit it out," Sherlock said as he took a newspaper off the floor and opened it with a pop.

"If you could find a woman for me," he said quickly. Sherlock barked a laugh.

"It must be bad if you're turning to a detective to find you a match," he said, still cackling. "You might have more luck with an online dating site as a venue instead of a sociopath."

"Oh for the love of-" John started angrily, then bit off the rest of his sentence. "I meant a specific one, you git."

"Oh, well by all means proceed then," Sherlock said impishly as he put down the newspaper, then steepling his fingers and making a mock expression of concentration.

John made a mental note to kill him later. Then he started to tell his story, reliving it in his mind's eye as he gave Sherlock a slightly more condensed version.

* * *

_"Oh, sorry!" John said quickly. "Let me help you with that," he added, ears burning as he reached down to pick up the oranges and apples scattered on the sidewalk. The woman bent down also, and gathered the runaway fruit into her arm. They stood at the same time, and John made a sheepish expression. He tried not to stare, she was _wow_ beautiful, even being wrapped up in loose flowing clothes and a colourful green veil showing only her eyes._

_"Looks like I broke your bag," he said apologetically, holding up the torn plastic Tesco's bag. _

_"It is fine," said the mysterious woman in her native Arabian accent. John awkwardly transferred the produce in his arms to hers, and she used both of her arms to hold it all._

_"I should really look where I'm going," John said awkwardly, internally kicking himself for being so clumsy. He hadn't had time to react when she was suddenly in his path, and he collided with her grocery bag swinging by here side, causing an explosion of red and orange._

_"I told you, it is nothing," she said warmly, looking at him with big brown eyes. John swallowed, a warmth flaring in his chest._

_"Would you - would it be possible - " John stuttered, before smiling widely, committing himself. "Would you like to have dinner with me?" he asked smoothly. "Not fruit, of course," he said with a gesture to the items named, making both of them laugh._

_She seemed unsure, so John pressed a little harder._

_"Think of it as an apology for being such a clout," he said urgingly, asking with his eyes._

_She nodded in consent, smile creases appearing around her eyes. "Alright." she said, and raised an eyebrow._

* * *

"Please tell me it gets better," Sherlock interrupted caustically, throwing his head back with a moan. "I thought I was being asked to solve a mystery, not suffer through a mawkish love story."

"Shut up and listen. I'm giving you the whole story and letting you decide which parts are important. I thought you liked that," John said, annoyed.

"Not when I'm forced to listen to romantic drivel," Sherlock complained, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically.

"Just try not to die of boredom, I'm not finished," John said before continuing with his tale.

* * *

_They walked to Baker Street, since it wasn't very far. She had agreed to leave her produce at the flat while they dined, to be retrieved later. As they approached the door, she let out a small, delicate gasp. _

_"221B Baker Street? Are you that famous detective?" she asked, awe in her voice. John reflexively stiffened, but let it go immediately and chuckled._

_"No, that's my flatmate," he said, emphasis on _flatmate_. She 'oh'ed._

_"I didn't think so. I hear Sherlock Holmes is a handsome man," she said solemnly. John began forming a low opinion of the decorum in the Middle East when she suddenly laughed._

_"It was a joke," she said teasingly, and the tense feeling fell away, leaving John room to grin as he unlocked the door. _

_They transferred the produce to Mrs. Hudson, who instantly understood what was up and winked before disappearing, closing the door behind her._

_John and his mysterious Arabian woman took a cab to a nearby Mediterranean restaurant, and were quickly seated at a small round table opposite each other._

_"So, do you have a name to go with that face?" John asked casually, waiting for someone to come and take their order._

_"Aaliyah Hannachi," she said, almost challengingly. "And you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows playfully._

_"John Watson," replied the owner of the name with pride. "What brings you to England?" he asked pleasantly._

_"My family moved here a few years ago," she said, her words dripping with Arabian flavour. "I am studying to become a teacher," she said brightly, with a contagious enthusiasm._

_"That's lovely," John said, applying the compliment in her general direction as well as her choice of study._

_The night passed quickly, in various small talk and little things. She told him about her native country a bit, and he tried to explain pop culture (she was particularly fixated by Gangnam Style) and whatever else she was curious about. Soon the courses were eaten, but John was reluctant to go. _

_"Do you have any way I can contact you?" he asked as they rose from the table._

_"I can give you my address," she said mildly._

_"I'll take you there," John immediately offered, drawing another smile from Aaliyah._

_After picking up her oranges and apples from Mrs. Hudson, they drove to the address she had named._

_"Thank you. It was lovely," she said, and John could imagine the wide smile hiding under her veil._

_"We need to do that again," John said promisingly._

_Then they parted ways, and John walked with an extra spring in his step as he walked to the main road to get himself a cab._

* * *

"That's it?!" Sherlock exclaimed, a disbelieving expression on his face. "I cannot believe you put me through all that for nothing," he said bitterly.

"Hold on!" John snapped. "When I stopped by today, the owner of the complex said he'd never had anyone by that name staying there. He didn't recognize her description. Said he'd never had an Arabian stay there, ever," John said, frowning. "And I can't find record of anyone named Aaliyah Hannachi anywhere," he said, finishing his story.

Sherlock made no move, just moved his eyes lazily to the ceiling.

"Boring," he muttered accusingly. John felt annoyance flare in his chest.

"Sherlock, please! I want to know what's going on, and I want you to help me!" he said, close to losing his patience. She had been lovely, but her disappearance, to be frank, creeped him out. He wanted to know how, and why.

"Why would anyone create a false identity to go on a date with me and then disappear? It makes no sense. There hasn't been a threat, nothing strange. It's not like we talked about anything confidential. And I never even touched her, so it's not like that either. Why and how? What if she's in danger?"

But Sherlock refused to be interested.

"If you're so desperate to find this woman, why don't you look for her yourself?" Sherlock said with a dismissive gesture. "I can't be bothered with this," he said haughtily.

John sighed a long suffering sigh. "Fine," he snapped. "I'll leave you to your moping then," he said, and left, going up to his room. Sherlock lingered in the silence awhile, and then slowly rose and walked to his room. As he gathered up a few things, he reminisced a conversation he'd had with John last month.

* * *

_"You wouldn't understand, Sherlock. I think that's clear enough by now," John said, as he was putting on his shoes to go on a date. _

_"No, I wouldn't," Sherlock said cuttingly, before a thoughtful expression came over his face._

_"What is it even like? It must be dreadfully dull," he said, drawing an alarmed look from John._

_"So now I've got you wondering what's it like to be on a date," he said fearfully. "I pity the victim you decide to use as part of your experiment," he said wryly before grabbing his coat and leaving._

_"Indeed," Sherlock murmured slowly._

* * *

Sherlock got out a small cardboard box and started to place items in it, as he mentally relived another exchange between him and the army doctor a couple of weeks ago.

* * *

_"Don't even deny it John. You would never have a clue," Sherlock said smugly as he heated a chemical compound over his Bunsen burner._

_John laughed sarcastically. "I'd recognize you in an instant, you sod. For once, you're not as good as you think you are," he said with an evil smile._

_"Want to bet?" Sherlock shot back, raising his chin challengingly._

_"I don't need to. I already know. I've seen all your disguises, and with a face like that, there's no way I'd miss you, " John said with a similarly tilted face._

_"We'll see about that," retorted the detective, and poured his concoction on top of a hand lying on a plate._

* * *

Sherlock chuckled, and looked at the contents of the box one last time before closing it and sliding it under his bed.

A small contacts case, one orange and apple, and a bright green veil.

Take that, John.

* * *

_**A/N:** Yep yep yep I did that. I just did that and I might regret it later. But the idea came to me (after seeing that piece of art by reapersun... ACD reading a list of kink memes) and I couldn't stop laughing, so here we are lovelies. In case anyone was wondering, this is absolutely not slash. Just a bit of fun. :P I always have a Straight!John and an Asexual!Sherlock. Although I guess anything is slash when you have the gay goggles on._

_Leave me a review, and feel free to tear me apart for this... What was I thinking..._


	3. Bachelors

_**A/N:** Yes, hello lovelies. This occurred to me and I had to write it. No content to warn you about, other than a few sentences that might be vaguely offensive to germophobes. Sorry._

_Enjoy! I'd love to hear your thoughts! (And if you leave a review, tell me to get off my lazy butt and write my Between the Lines fic. Because I need to and I haven't. Thanks a ton, my f(ol)lowers.)_

* * *

Sherlock wasn't a germophobe.

Well, he certainly didn't want anybody to vomit on him or anything, but he was fine with the level of microorganisms he normally came in contact with. He avoided physical contact usually on a claim of personal comfort, not necessarily the fear of the transfer of a pathogen. Really, if those people were truly paranoid of germs, if those people refused to eat food that had been touched, if they had to disinfect after every handshake, Sherlock failed to see how those people could ever... reproduce. Maybe they aren't so paranoid after all. Sherlock had even dumpster dived before. Honestly, germophobes might be a lot less finicky if they were starving to death. Or at least in Sherlock's opinion.

But he still had boundaries.

* * *

John was used to having to touch, to a level most people would be uncomfortable with.

After all, he was an army doctor. That meant having to sleep in close quarters, take showers in less than ideal privacy conditions. It meant having to perform surgery on the battlefield, having to probe injuries and bandage them, no matter where on the patient's person they might fall. It was part of the job. He'd long since learned to deal with it, to stop being uncomfortable with it.

But he still had boundaries.

* * *

_What is it about Tuesdays that's always so miserable?_ John wondered to himself as he dragged himself in through the door.

Everyone complained about Mondays, and John had never seen the point of that. On Monday, you're stocked up on energy from the weekend, no problem. And by Sunday, John was usually chafing to work instead of lying around. (Or he used to, before he formed a bizarre partnership with one Sherlock Holmes and threw his schedule into a chaotic, uncertain mystery.) But Tuesdays... Tuesdays are awful because then you're tired from Monday, and you've still got the majority of the week ahead of you.

Tuesdays were John's least favourite days. Too bad a whole seventh of his life would be Tuesdays.

The flat was dark and silent, leading John to believe that everyone had gone to bed. He took off his coat and hung it (something Sherlock often neglected to do, and the coat thrown on the sofa testified to that) then shuffled into the kitchen, feeling like a late night snack was in order. And a drink. He was parched.

There was a half-eaten box of chocolate biscuits on the counter, the John happily dug into those while he looked for a supplement to his small repast. There was a jar of pickles in the fridge (oh, those are fingers...) and a container of microwavable mashed potatoes in a cabinet. Definite no to both. He felt too tired to actually cook anything.

After the fourth biscuit, he realized the sugar was leaving a strong taste in his mouth and he needed a drink. Well, there was a half-empty quart of milk in the fridge. He looked around for a cup but there wasn't a clean one anywhere. They were all piled in the sink, along with an assortment of other dishes that went up to the faucet. John audibly moaned. There were few things that irritated him more than when Sherlock did that.

The man didn't seem to understand that it was literally _impossible_ to do the dishes when _the faucet is buried underneath them._

Of course, John could always ask (read: coerce) Sherlock to do it, but that would almost definitely lead to a bizarre experiment on dish soap or something.

No cup, then. No way John was going to deal with that catastrophe right now.

But he wanted milk...

John pulled out the milk and looked around. Still no sign of life.

He raised the milk and drank straight out of the carton. No one had to know.

"Do you do that often?"

John spat out the milk and almost dropped the carton. He turned, dripping milk, to find Sherlock standing motionless in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Ah... I was..." John felt himself get hot with embarrassment, and put the carton back in the fridge.

Without another word, Sherlock turned and disappeared down the hall.

John stood frozen, wondering if he had just caused a week-long sulk.

There was the sound of running water from the bathroom, and - scrubbing?

A quick walk to the open door, and John peeked in to find Sherlock vigourously brushing his teeth.

There was a garbled sentence. John stepped closer, trying to make sense of teh esemingly disconnected sounds.

"What's that?" he asked.

Sherlock took the toothbrush out of his mouth long enough to emphatically tell John, "I do too."

John blanched.

"Oh, please tell me you're joking," John begged.

Sherlock continued to scrub his teeth until his gums bled.

John took up the mouthwash and gurgled repeatedly until Sherlock finally straightened. John handed him the mouthwash and moved to the vacated sink to take up his own toothbrush.

They cycled through that two more times before they were satisfied.

Boundaries.

* * *

_**A/N:** 1) I have had someone walk in on me while I was drinking out of a milk carton, and let me tell you, it was one of the most terrifying experiences in my whole freaking life and I darn near choked on milk. The jolt of shock and guilt haunts my nightmares to this day. And you know what they did? Laughed. And pretended like it didn't happen. Bless you, you know who you are, if you're reading this (which I almost certainly know you're not, but oh well)._

_2) I also cannot stand it when people pile dishes up to the faucet. How the heck can I clean the dishes if you do that. Don't do that._

_Also, I really meant to have more serious things to write about, but so far all I've done is fluff. Sorry. And I couldn't bring myself to write for BTL, so I sorta chickened out and wrote this fic instead. Oh well._


End file.
